


Down the Drain

by purrslink



Category: A-Team (TV), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Face loves the man, but you really can't give Murdock anything nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down the Drain

He was going to kill that man.

“I was sure I had it yesterday, so it has to be in the house somewhere,” Murdock said from the other doorway, cuticle worried between his teeth as those big brown eyes watched.

All he could do was grumble as his hands twisted and bent smooth wire. “I swear to god, Murdock, I can’t give you anything important.”

The pilot grinned, voicing the old joke. “I’m why we can’t have nice things, I know I know.”

And it was true, even now, years after the mission that ended their run as fugitives and their time as Stockwell’s dogs. The Vette seats had already been reupholstered twice due to stains from certain pilot’s Chucks, they’d had to replace the kitchen window once due to an exuberant game of croquet, the nice painting in the den had gone through three frames before the canvas went with, and his second best suit was still a sore subject in the house. The incidents still inspired fighting at times, but it was hard to stay mad at Murdock. Particularly when apologies tended to come with long fingers tracing his ribs and a warm mouth whispering equally warm words over his ear.

But this, this was almost inexcusable.

A symbol of one of the most important days of his life, entrusted to Murdock years ago, gone. The same event commemorated by the place of honor, in the ornate gold frame that Murdock still complains about belonging in 18th century France instead of their small house in the Northern California countryside. That day that still rushes to his mind every time he smells jasmine in the garden or lights those tea candles they keep for special nights. An event that they both carry a reminder of in the form of dual pictures in wallets and a matched pair of silver rings.

Matched, that is, until now.

A wonderful shower – warm water on his shoulders, equally warm lips on his shoulder, long fingers tracing down the planes and contours of his abs – all ruined with a single idiotic observation from him. “Where’s your ring?”

Sometimes he wished he weren’t so fucking observant.

He swore as the wire bit into his hand. “God damn it…”

“Want me to do that?” Murdock’s voice floated in from over his shoulder.

The look he gave had Murdock turning, hands up in apology, towel flapping for a view that would normal have him smiling but only had him scowling right now at the fact that the man he loved could be so careless. “All right, all right. I’ll go look in here.”

“I’m getting you one of those rings out of those red machines in front of the grocery store if it’s gone,” Face muttered as he finally bent the coat hanger into the customary ‘J’ shape.

A sweep of his hand brushed still wet hair out of his eyes and with a loud, perhaps over-exaggerated sigh, he squatted (pretending that his knees didn’t pop) and began the arduous task of removing the cover.

His threat was met with a laugh from the other room. “Awww, Faceman, then we wouldn’t be matching! We’d have to get two and doesn’t plastic clash with those suits of yours?”

“It clashes less than the receipt for a whole new ring!” The man wasn’t getting off that easy, with a laugh and a quip. Especially not when he had to shake off a wad of hair with a wet plop against the tiled floor, furthering the irritation. He was never going to get the smell out of his nose, never.

“I didn’t mean to lose it, Temp…”

He swore inwardly at the fact that now his hand was scraping sludge and at the fact that he felt like said sludge for snapping at the pilot like that. “I know, Murdock, I know…”

But with fingers covered in slime, the coat hanger threading down in hopes of a metallic tink echoing up, and knees complaining at the awkward squat, he still felt like throttling the man.

“Baby?”

He sighed. “What, Murdock?”

“I’m sorry.” The plaintive little tone had him looking up into those brown eyes and feeling more like slime than before.

There may be things broken and banged up and lost on a regular occasion because of the man in front of him. Perhaps, over time, it would get better. But what wouldn’t change was the affection in those eyes, in the way the pilot was leaning against the shower frame with a pout on his face that was inspiring another sigh from him. A sigh caught suddenly by a warm mouth and a long fingered hand on his face, thumb gently rubbing the soft skin of his jaw. Yes, he would forgive the pilot. Even if he was balancing on the balls of his feet, fingers down the drain and other hand covered in gunk he didn’t even want to think about.

He always forgave him, and he always would.

Though there was something digging into his face that had him pulling back. What caught his eye froze him on the spot. “Where did that come from?”

Murdock smiled brightly and wiggled his now-ringed hand. “Oh, it was in my pant’s pocket!”

Tomorrow. He’d forgive him tomorrow.

After he killed him.


End file.
